


Remembering the Taste of Water

by asphyxeno



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jaskier Has Depression, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Vent Piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22876828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphyxeno/pseuds/asphyxeno
Summary: It was crushing, it really was, to consider getting out of bed.A vent piece about Jaskier and his depression
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 429





	Remembering the Taste of Water

**Author's Note:**

> "I'm screaming out that I want to be saved, but you can't save garbage."

It was crushing, it really was, to consider getting out of bed.

Jaskier had developed a routine for it. Simple, but most of the time, it had been effective. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself performing that day, along with all the details involved in getting to that point. Getting up. Dressing himself. Practicing hygiene. Eating. Then the performance itself. Tuning his lute, deciding a set, facing crowds of people and judging their mood.

Most days, dividing what he had to do into simple steps made things easier. He could tackle each part individually.

But that was most days. This was not most days.

Jaskier kept his eyes closed against the sun, already high in the sky. It was at just the right angle to shine directly into his rented room at the Inn he and Geralt had chosen. He sighed, thinking of the witcher. It wouldn't be long before he came back to rouse him from what Geralt would no doubt think was merely a hangover. The poet wished it was something so straightforward.

It was the first time Jaskier had traveled with Geralt long enough for this to happen while in his company.

In the past, the most they'd ever traveled together was a month. Originally, they'd only joined each other on paths between towns, where their ways would inevitably separate with Jaskier courting or at court, and Geralt finding he'd need to look for work elsewhere. More recently, they'd begun staying together longer. Several days became several weeks. Weeks became a month. Two months.

Since their latest encounter, the troubadour had been traveling with Geralt for over three months now, through the height of summer. Finally in September, the temperature had mercifully begun to cool, which inevitably brought with it the reality that soon autumn, and then winter would set in, and both would have to find a place to settle in for the season. Even before Geralt, he'd had this problem, yet it was easier to blame the seasons for why Jaskier found it more and more difficult to rise and greet each passing day.

On that day, he couldn't imagine himself performing. And so, he'd stayed in bed despite having been awake even before the sunrise. He just wished he could go back to sleep, but after hours of trying, sleep just wouldn't come.

He turned on his side, exhaustion filling him and willed his thoughts to stop. Hoped that his body would cooperate and that his veins would stop thrumming with the unprovoked anxiety and guilt that accompanied this feeling.

The feeling in question was hard to pin down by something as trivial as a cause. It just happened and then it would lodge itself in his chest, his lungs, his throat, and it would stay stuck there until eventually, blissfully, it eased.

Secretly Jaskier feared that one day the feeling would become a permanent fixture.

"Rough night?" asked Geralt, pushing his way into the room. Their shared room.

Jaskier bid any hopes of self-isolation for the day a fond farewell. "Sort of," he said. Just answering felt exhausting, which terrified the bard as someone who depended so much on his voice.

Geralt had been gone for the whole of the evening, hunting down a local contract. He couldn't know what Jaskier had spent his evening doing. Then the witcher sniffed the air and Jaskier thought that oh, maybe he could. "You spent the night alone," he said. It wasn't a question. He sniffed again. "You didn't drink?"

"No." Jaskier hadn't had anything to eat or drink since Geralt had left the night before. Just another example of his own uselessness. It was just as well. He wasn't hungry anyway.

"And you're not performing." By this time of day, Jaskier was usually entertaining the lunch crowd, playing for a meal and perhaps a few coins. It was odd to find him in bed in the middle of the day without anyone accompanying him. The bard felt a dip in the bed as Geralt joined him. "Jaskier, are you ill?"

Jaskier exhaled in what he might have called a laugh were he feeling more poetic. Him, not feeling poetic. Perhaps ill _was_ the right term. "You could say that."

The witcher searched over him, obviously looking for signs of affliction. Sweating, flushed skin, clamminess, any telltale signs of sickness. He found none.

Jaskier _really_ didn't care to explain. How could he explain that sometimes, for any, inexplicable duration, he simply grew tired. Tired of survival, of life, with all the passion and color drained from everything he did. How could he perform, even sing, when he barely had the energy to speak? He pulled the covers up to cover his head, as if it might hide him from the witcher's concerned gaze - a look the bard felt he didn't deserve even on his better days.

Maybe he should leave, he reasoned. They'd separate soon enough, after all. It was time he stopped burdening Geralt with his incessant babbling, his obnoxious opinions, his slow pace hindering each of the witcher's contracts. Geralt was only stringing him along because it was easier than driving him away, Jaskier's stubbornness yet another irredeemable quality that stung like every other one he'd dredged up from the depths.

And here he was again being a nuisance. Making no profit as his selfish feelings kept him all but glued to the bed, taking up their sleep accommodations when no doubt the witcher had worked himself down trying to earn both their keeps. Perhaps he couldn't perform, but even if it took all of his energy, he should try to get off the bed. He owed Geralt that much.

"Just a moment," Jaskier said finally, his mouth dry. "Give me a minute, and I'll move." He said that, yet even pulling the covers back down took gargantuan effort.

A warm hand on his shoulder stopped him, and Jaskier peeked up at Geralt from what little he'd managed to expose. "We can share," the witcher said.

Jaskier had thought Geralt might treat him with mockery, teasing, disdain, or worst yet, a demand for an explanation. He instantly felt guilty that he'd thought Geralt to be capable of any of the former, especially when instead he'd received calm acceptance, and an understanding he hadn't expected of the witcher. The lump in his chest tightened its hold and he turned away.

"Ok," was all the poet could manage. It was all he dared to say.

The mattress dipped again beneath Geralt's weight as he shifted on the bed, squeezing himself in beside Jaskier. Automatically, he looped his arms around the bard, instinctively protective at seeing him in such a state.

And it should have been nice, it _should_ have been a comfort. Jaskier appreciated the gesture, the warmth, the intimacy. But in some ways such kindness from the witcher just felt a new kind of cruelty. A new kind of isolation. Surrounded by warmth even as he continued to drown himself in icy shards. Ironic, considering the bard's lungs felt as though they were on fire, and it hurt with each passing thought that jabbed accusations and dragged out every flaw. A burden. Obnoxious. Too loud, too slow, too... Pointless. Useless. Too-

"Stop."

Geralt's voice again, piercing its way through murky thoughts. The witcher had always been able to see best in the dark, after all. Then Jaskier felt a hand on his own, and he realized that Geralt hadn't been talking about his racing thoughts. Without noticing, the poet had dug his nails into his own forearm, dragging just enough to push the flesh with it. Enough to scab, to scar, to sting for days, and all without drawing any blood. A habit he'd developed long ago, as a way to calm himself and quell his thoughts when nothing else would work. It had been the safest option on a long list of last resorts.

Jaskier pulled his hands away, flushed with shame, angry that Geralt brought attention to it, his eyes stinging with frustration and the sudden sting as the damaged settled into his skin. His arm was already pocked with minute scars from the same habit.

"I'm sorry," said Jaskier automatically. He scrambled to move away, to distance himself from his embarrassment and guilt and _feelings_ , but Geralt held him fast.

"No," said the witcher, his grip at Jaskier's waist firm for a moment. Then he loosened it and sat up himself. "Stay here."

Then he was up and oh, he's leaving. Geralt stepped out of the room. Of course, he's leaving, why wouldn't he?

Emotion welled up in Jaskier's chest and threatened to overwhelm him as he thought of how immediately selfish it had been, not to consider Geralt's reaction to such an act. A man who'd had survival ingrained into his very DNA seeing someone he loves intentionally harm himself. Of course he would leave.

Anguish overtook him and it bubbled over, and finally, inevitably, Jaskier found himself struggling to breathe with everything that was blocking the way. Just before he went under, drowning in the feeling, he recognized the anxiety attack for what it was.

But there was little he could do to stop it.

Geralt nearly ran into him at the door. "Jaskier?"

"I can't-" the bard struggled to explain. Can't what? Can't stay here? Can't talk? Can't _breathe_?

"You can." Geralt took his arm, redirected him back into the room. Going out into a tavern full of drunken customers would only make things worse.

Jaskier wheezed, breath stolen from him by anxiety and panic, a desire to be anywhere but _here_ controlling him to the core. Funny, he'd spent all day not wanting to leave the bed and the prospect of going back it seemed like the worst idea in the world. The laugh he'd wanted to make came out as a sob. "I'm sorry," Jaskier said, just as before, unsure of what else to say.

"Let me help?" Geralt's hands rested delicately on the bard's shoulders and were he more coherent, he'd have realized he'd never heard the witcher sound softer.

Jaskier shook his head, then after a moment of reconsideration, nodded. "Okay," he said. He just wanted it all to stop. He'd do anything. "Please, help me."

Then Geralt made a Sign with his hand and all at once the feeling that had taken hold so strongly dulled, and Jaskier found he could breathe again.

"Geralt, I..." Oddly the clarity was accompanied by a cloud that filled his mind. It made talking difficult. But at least he could breathe. "What did you do?"

"Axii," explained Geralt. "Just to calm you."

"Oh," Jaskier inhaled deep, shaky breaths. The influence of the Sign seemed to encourage him to breathe, a minor suggestion at the back of his mind that everything was fine, and that breathing, yes just like that, would help. Absently, he wondered if the Sign always worked like that, or if it was Geralt's doing.

"Sit back." Geralt led Jaskier to sit down on the bed again, where he'd asked him to stay.

Jaskier blinked hazily. "Why did you leave?" he asked, his voice quavering even has calm settled into him.

"To ask the innkeeper for these." Geralt leaned over to a nightstand and lifted a flask and bandages.

"This isn't bad enough for that."

"An open wound is an open wound, and can still get infected on the road," chided Geralt, sounding as if he was repeating advice he'd been told many times in his life. He probably was. "And I asked him to bring up food. I'm hungry, and I know that if you didn't perform, you didn't eat."

Jaskier had no argument against that, and so stayed quiet, choosing instead to focus on his breathing. In and out. His mind cleared the more he followed the Sign's directions. Not controlling, but the guiding, gentle hand of an easy suggestion.

Their meal was brought in and placed on a table without him ever noticing. Then, slowly, the Axii wore off and he realized he hadn't noticed how Geralt had bandaged his arm up, either.

"Drink this," Geralt handed Jaskier the flask he'd shown him, and the bard obeyed thoughtlessly.

He hadn't thought water could taste as sweet as it did.

Jaskier moved from the bed to at least sit at the table with Geralt to eat. It was entirely unappealing, but he ate anyway, not one to be ungrateful for being given food. Still, it tasted of nothing. He pushed the bland food around the plate, feeling already like he'd eaten more than he could.

Awkwardly, it was Geralt who finally broke the silence.

"What do you usually do when this happens?"

"It manifests in different ways." Jaskier shrugged, testing another bite of potato. At least _that_ was supposed to be bland. "Often, I'll find myself unable to write. Words fail me, and I am swallowed up in the silence. When it's like this, I just try to sleep until it goes away. It depends on my finances, and my fiancees."

"And other times? When it's not like this?"

"I write. Or..." Jaskier set his fork down. "I get reckless."

"How?"

"Oh, you know... Alcohol..." Jaskier said, a false smile gracing his lips. It faded as he thought of the times when he got that bad. When digging into his arm for some semblance of control or evidence of healing wasn't enough. Sometimes he would provoke drunkards into hitting him, and it usually ended up in a free room and board from the owner. Sometimes he decided he would let anyone have their way for a while, and let them decide how he deserved to be treated, just for any amount of attention. And sometimes, when he was very desperate, he'd go into the woods at night, in areas that had called for the needs of witchers, or in places known to be infested with bandits, and let fate decide whether or not he'd survive.

That's where he would have ended up, had Geralt not intervened. Jaskier couldn't bring himself to tell the witcher that. Not yet. He could barely handle the concern directed at him as it was.

Then the yawn that tore itself from the bard surprised them both.

"Come on," said the witcher, an affectionate smile gracing his features. "You need to go back to bed for a while."

"Me?" Jaskier said, sounding for a moment like his usual self again. "I'm not the one who needs a nap."

"You said yourself, you try to sleep it off." Geralt stood and stretched before going over to flop on the bed. He pattered the space beside himself. "Come on. I'll sleep better if you're with me."

Jaskier grumbled something about him being a liar, but graciously obeyed, he flopped onto the bed, where once again, Geralt immediately found his waist. He pulled him close, encompassing him in heat and warmth. Only this time, it didn't feel so lonely. That feeling of tightness was still in his chest, still stuck up in his lungs and his throat, and they would be for a while yet. But Geralt had loosened its grip.

"Thank you," said Jaskier quietly, idly running his fingers over the fresh bandage covering his arm. It really _wasn't_ necessary.

"Hmm," hummed the sleepy witcher behind him. Then a broad, sword-calloused hand found Jaskier's and sleep, which had evaded the poet for so long, took them both.

**Author's Note:**

> this was a vent piece and also I like the idea of Geralt using axii to help with panic attacks
> 
> sorry if it's ooc but i don't care
> 
> the title and opening note are lyrics from Just Life by Nukuri (I recommend the Eve cover)


End file.
